- Messages
- 309
- Points
- 93
There's nothing like finishing off a hard-working shift and knowing that when you get home, your bed awaits you as if it were your own personal royal chariot there for the sole purpose of carrying you off into the land of dreams. There's nothing like waking up at dawn and gazing towards the gentle rays of the sun that are squeaking through your blinders and lazily resting upon your room. There's nothing like sitting up in bed and stretching your arms high in the air in order to get all the necessary kinks out. There's nothing like putting on your incredibly soft slippers and floating to the kitchen and there's nothing like brewing a fresh cup of joe to jolt your senses and ever since Pain for Pride, my mornings lately, have been just that: pure paradise. I've accumulated so many hours of sleep alongside my Answers World Championship that you'd think I was a cat. For the first time ever, I pampered myself, for me and me only and for the first time in decades, I slept on a fucking queen-sized bed and not on a park bench or inside of a dumpster where dead things still slither. To say it's been long overdue would be a colossal understatement but alas, all good things must come to an end right? The days of self-indulgence are over. It's time to go put on my trusty yet vomit-inducing wrestling attire and that's just from the aroma alone. It's time to put on my socks that are bound to have dead skin, bunion shavings and jagged, broken off yellow toenails jiggling inside of them like your mom's car keys. It's time to stuff my foot into my old badly worn sneaker that has a ratty toe-hole chewed through by wear and tear over time. It's time to pull up my out-of-style jorts, which if there ever was an imitation of swiss cheese, these jeans would take the cake. It's time to throw on my sleeveless black DarkaneTimes shirt which I've already burned a few holes in via falling asleep with a cigarette in hand which isn't exactly ideal but I'm the champion and I can do whatever the fuck I want. As I look around this rickety, derelict shack that I've been living in, maybe, after all, it wasn't paradise, it was back to reality. It wasn't a queen sized bed that I was sleeping on, it was a grungy straight-out-of-the-80's neon orange couch with springs popping out and duct tape covering its foundation, not to mention the stack of jizz stained porno mags creating a makeshift couch leg because the original one broke and that wasn't coffee I was drinking was it? It was a lonely mug of piss with a floating cockroach in it because it couldn't figure out how to swim. Dumbass.
Look at this mess on the floor, all these empty white castle hamburger boxes, several bongs adjacent to each other, some still rolling back and forth in place, empty cracker jack boxes, used up scratch tickets that didn't amount to a damn, raggedy clothes in random piles and then... I see her. My everything, the true object of my affection, the only actual thing in this place that resembled paradise and the only thing that I truly give a fuck about sat there atop her lazy boy, that I personally bought for her, fresh off of a Craig's list ad and to top it all off it only has a few rips and tears in it. The Answers World Championship in all her glory. How are you, my love? Are you ready for some action? One more bong hit? Ok.
As much as I'd love to say that life has been picture perfect, truth be told, it hasn't been. There are pros and cons to excessive leisure and time off. One of the major cons is ring rust and not being in ring-shape and of course, I can't forget the endless back aches from becoming so lethargic and my overall motivation to do much of anything has been diminished because I've had nothing to do. The burning question on everybody's mind is have I gone from a raging inferno to a subdued ember? Has my momentum been capped off? Will I live up to the lofty expectations set upon me by my biggest critics to successfully defend my championship? Will I be able to contain the wildfire that is the 1%? Or am I just an inferior placeholder for their "inevitable" ascension? Is it a matter of when and not if Jack Ripley, Theron Nikolas, and Mr. DEDEDE rip this championship from my grasp and rule over EAW with an iron fist? Are there any moments of self-doubt that I'm essentially doing battle with a three-headed monster? Or should I say two headed?
Because Ripley is the ass end.
You're the one who has to deal with the digestive remnants of whatever Theron and Mr.DEDEDE chew through. You're the asshole that will pucker up and deal with the non-necessities, the nuisances, and the bullshit; all of the things that Theron and Mr. DEDEDE feel they're too important to plunge into, so they pass the burden onto you. If things go wrong, you'll be the first one they blame, if things go right, you'll never get any credit. That's why you're the first to step into my lair, that's why you're the first one to be sacrificed upon my altar. That's why Theron has his tail tucked between his legs while he deals with nonentities like Andrei Sukmeovka or whatever the fuck his name is. That's why Mr. DEDEDE has gone a-wall, hiding his true identity as a pillow biter, while secretly getting his body rubbed down and his weasel greased via an erotic Nuru massage by a Japanese stud muffin in some remote location. That just leaves you all by your lonesome, which is something you're not accustomed to being and that's just easy pickings for me. What I see, is prey. You're not wounded prey per say and you're not on your last legs either, but you're the kind of prey that doesn't know what he's doing, the kind of prey that has this bewildered look on his face like a deer in headlights, the kind of prey that will unknowingly waltz right into a trap because he isn't aware of his surroundings. It almost makes me feel a sense of empathy and that's something I don't usually feel towards anyone, because you're so oblivious. I almost want to tell you that you're smack dab in the middle of a danger zone, I almost want to give you a head start in order to give you a fighting chance, but I can't and you know why? Because behind your frightful eyes lies a scheming manipulator, a con artist, you're a cog in the machine of the 1%, you're somebody who won't take the high road, but instead you'll take any shortcut you can find by any means necessary and while you may be completely out of your element in this match, the fact is; you're trying to take what is mine. That's what it all boils down to and that right there is enough incentive for me to drag your ass to the gallows and hang you high right in the center of that fucking ring, to use you as a warning signal, sent out to the rest of the 1% as a reminder that what they offered up isn't enough.
That's it isn't it? You're not enough and you never were, the 1% did you a favor, you were quite frankly a lost and forlorn mutt who scavenged the rainy streets for scraps, they came to a sudden stop and they rolled down their window and they decided to throw you a bone and nurture you back to health. Or at least to something respectable, however, the reason they did that was to create a fall guy when things go awry, they didn't see potential in you, they just needed a fucking scapegoat, somebody to shine their shoes, more specifically: Theron Nikolas' shoes. It's bad enough that you willingly caved in and believed all of the tantalizing sweet nothings he whispered into your ear, but now you're just a wannabe Theron Nikolas; a pathetic Theron Nikolas mini-me.
Everything you do and everything you say has Theron's fingerprints all over it and no matter what you do, you'll never be able to remove that pesky stigma unless you do the unthinkable and defeat me or unless you actually think for yourself for once and segregate yourself from the 1%. I'd like to see that personally, I'd like to see you rise like a Phoenix from the ashes but as the saying goes, you can shit in one hand and wish in the other, see which one fills up first. If I were in your shoes and thankfully I'm not, I'd be motivated to establish myself as a lone, independent entity who is capable of figuring out the world for himself because let's face facts, the only reason you're here is due to the fact that Impact stuck his nose where it didn't belong. There always has to be a catch doesn't there? There always has to be some form of unruly fuckery which truly prevents the 1% from achieving the standard that they set for themselves. There won't be a revolution at Dynasty, only a miserable disappointment, you and the 1% are not a precursor for things to come for Dynasty. I'll kill it before it even gets started. As far as I'm concerned the 1% hasn't even lifted off of the ground, it's just a stagnant rocket, blowing hot air and tooting its own horn for no other reason than to get their 15 seconds of fame and to hoodwink people into believing in a fabrication and don't worry, I'll give you your 15 seconds of fame, I'll make you famous Jack, probably for the first time in your career.
For all the wrong reasons.
Look at this mess on the floor, all these empty white castle hamburger boxes, several bongs adjacent to each other, some still rolling back and forth in place, empty cracker jack boxes, used up scratch tickets that didn't amount to a damn, raggedy clothes in random piles and then... I see her. My everything, the true object of my affection, the only actual thing in this place that resembled paradise and the only thing that I truly give a fuck about sat there atop her lazy boy, that I personally bought for her, fresh off of a Craig's list ad and to top it all off it only has a few rips and tears in it. The Answers World Championship in all her glory. How are you, my love? Are you ready for some action? One more bong hit? Ok.
As much as I'd love to say that life has been picture perfect, truth be told, it hasn't been. There are pros and cons to excessive leisure and time off. One of the major cons is ring rust and not being in ring-shape and of course, I can't forget the endless back aches from becoming so lethargic and my overall motivation to do much of anything has been diminished because I've had nothing to do. The burning question on everybody's mind is have I gone from a raging inferno to a subdued ember? Has my momentum been capped off? Will I live up to the lofty expectations set upon me by my biggest critics to successfully defend my championship? Will I be able to contain the wildfire that is the 1%? Or am I just an inferior placeholder for their "inevitable" ascension? Is it a matter of when and not if Jack Ripley, Theron Nikolas, and Mr. DEDEDE rip this championship from my grasp and rule over EAW with an iron fist? Are there any moments of self-doubt that I'm essentially doing battle with a three-headed monster? Or should I say two headed?
Because Ripley is the ass end.
You're the one who has to deal with the digestive remnants of whatever Theron and Mr.DEDEDE chew through. You're the asshole that will pucker up and deal with the non-necessities, the nuisances, and the bullshit; all of the things that Theron and Mr. DEDEDE feel they're too important to plunge into, so they pass the burden onto you. If things go wrong, you'll be the first one they blame, if things go right, you'll never get any credit. That's why you're the first to step into my lair, that's why you're the first one to be sacrificed upon my altar. That's why Theron has his tail tucked between his legs while he deals with nonentities like Andrei Sukmeovka or whatever the fuck his name is. That's why Mr. DEDEDE has gone a-wall, hiding his true identity as a pillow biter, while secretly getting his body rubbed down and his weasel greased via an erotic Nuru massage by a Japanese stud muffin in some remote location. That just leaves you all by your lonesome, which is something you're not accustomed to being and that's just easy pickings for me. What I see, is prey. You're not wounded prey per say and you're not on your last legs either, but you're the kind of prey that doesn't know what he's doing, the kind of prey that has this bewildered look on his face like a deer in headlights, the kind of prey that will unknowingly waltz right into a trap because he isn't aware of his surroundings. It almost makes me feel a sense of empathy and that's something I don't usually feel towards anyone, because you're so oblivious. I almost want to tell you that you're smack dab in the middle of a danger zone, I almost want to give you a head start in order to give you a fighting chance, but I can't and you know why? Because behind your frightful eyes lies a scheming manipulator, a con artist, you're a cog in the machine of the 1%, you're somebody who won't take the high road, but instead you'll take any shortcut you can find by any means necessary and while you may be completely out of your element in this match, the fact is; you're trying to take what is mine. That's what it all boils down to and that right there is enough incentive for me to drag your ass to the gallows and hang you high right in the center of that fucking ring, to use you as a warning signal, sent out to the rest of the 1% as a reminder that what they offered up isn't enough.
That's it isn't it? You're not enough and you never were, the 1% did you a favor, you were quite frankly a lost and forlorn mutt who scavenged the rainy streets for scraps, they came to a sudden stop and they rolled down their window and they decided to throw you a bone and nurture you back to health. Or at least to something respectable, however, the reason they did that was to create a fall guy when things go awry, they didn't see potential in you, they just needed a fucking scapegoat, somebody to shine their shoes, more specifically: Theron Nikolas' shoes. It's bad enough that you willingly caved in and believed all of the tantalizing sweet nothings he whispered into your ear, but now you're just a wannabe Theron Nikolas; a pathetic Theron Nikolas mini-me.
Everything you do and everything you say has Theron's fingerprints all over it and no matter what you do, you'll never be able to remove that pesky stigma unless you do the unthinkable and defeat me or unless you actually think for yourself for once and segregate yourself from the 1%. I'd like to see that personally, I'd like to see you rise like a Phoenix from the ashes but as the saying goes, you can shit in one hand and wish in the other, see which one fills up first. If I were in your shoes and thankfully I'm not, I'd be motivated to establish myself as a lone, independent entity who is capable of figuring out the world for himself because let's face facts, the only reason you're here is due to the fact that Impact stuck his nose where it didn't belong. There always has to be a catch doesn't there? There always has to be some form of unruly fuckery which truly prevents the 1% from achieving the standard that they set for themselves. There won't be a revolution at Dynasty, only a miserable disappointment, you and the 1% are not a precursor for things to come for Dynasty. I'll kill it before it even gets started. As far as I'm concerned the 1% hasn't even lifted off of the ground, it's just a stagnant rocket, blowing hot air and tooting its own horn for no other reason than to get their 15 seconds of fame and to hoodwink people into believing in a fabrication and don't worry, I'll give you your 15 seconds of fame, I'll make you famous Jack, probably for the first time in your career.
For all the wrong reasons.
